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“We’re leaving in twenty,” she says.
“Okay,” I reply.
Ania turns, pauses, and then turns back. “Can I sit with you while you get ready? I don’t want to be alone.”
“Sure,” I say, smiling, finding her honesty refreshing. Then I realize what I’m doing and quickly wipe the smile away.
She sits on one of the chairs, looking over at me. “Don’t worry about smiling, Mila. It’s not like he was popular.”
“It’s not that,” I tell her quickly. I know nothing about what Konstantin was like except that nobody seems torn up that he’s no longer here. “It was you just now. How straightforward you asked to hang with me.”
“Yeah, being straightforward is the best,” she murmurs. “Way, way better than trying to figure out these complicated things called human beings.”
I laugh and reflect that this is probably my second time since being here. The first was with Mikhailthatnight when he walked me back to my room. As he stood inches from me, it was like I could feel the heat coming from his half-naked, muscled body. I thought I could feelhimwantingme, but then he got distant. He looked sick when I asked if I could help with his work.
“Tell me about it,” I say, dabbing on more makeup. “How are you feeling, Ania?”
“It’s sort of weird,” she replies. “I cried when I heard the news, and this morning, I had a little cry, too. It’s not like I had an amazing bond with my dad. Sometimes, I wondered if he even liked me. Sometimes, I didn’thaveto wonder.”
“It’s easy to fixate on the good times, right?” I say. “You can think of the one time you both stayed up late watching moviesand eating ice cream. Maybe you can forget what happened after or before for a little while.”
“Yeah,” Ania murmurs, looking at me closely. “I don’t want to be rude, but it sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“That’s because I am,” I tell her. “My dad … He’s not a good man. He knows how to mess with your head—myhead. He knows how to make me wonder if hecouldbe good.”
Ania nods. “Yeah, it’s like they’re giving you a small preview of the sort of person they might become someday if we just put up with their crap one more day.”
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s it, Ania. I’ve never heard somebody describe it so well before.”
She gives me a sad look, not needing to say anything else. The only reason she’s able to describe this so well is because she’s lived through it too many times, just like me. Soon, it’s time to leave. We head down to the car together. Five vehicles with tinted windows are waiting to leave the property, with various Bratva men inside.
My breath catches when I see Mikhail walking across the lawn toward the cars. He looks stylish in his dark suit. His floppy hair is styled back with some product to have an old-fashioned look, like an actor from the fifties. He doesn’t look at me; he keeps walking and climbs into the car.
Ania and I get in the car behind theirs. My hands fidget together in my lap. There’s no reason for me to be nervous about this. Well, except that it’s just one more day until the wedding bells start ringing. Ania touches my hand. “Not to be a hypocrite, but chill, okay?”
I smile at her. “Yeah, sorry.”
“This is a lot to take in, right? All this change. All this responsibility.”
“That’s an understatement,” I say, nodding. “But today isn’t about that.”
I try not to look at Mikhail during the service, but it isn’t easy. We’re standing right across from each other. He’s got a tortured, confused look on his face as if he doesn’t know how to feel. The sun blazes down, catching the uncertainty in his eyes, the twist of insecurity in his lips. I want to go to him so badly and offer comfort. Instead, I stand with my head slightly bowed, pretending I’m not watching him.
Afterward, we return to the cars and head through the city to the function hall where the wake is held. At least a hundred people are here, with tall ceilings and a somber atmosphere. Mikhail, Ania, and Dimitri all sit at a table near the front, accepting condolences and occasional envelopes, presumably of cash. That’s what happened at the other Bratva funerals I’ve been to, anyway.
Thankfully, it’s only the Vegas Bratva, so I don’t have to put on a show for Dad. Though, if therearespies in the Sokolovs, then word might get back to him. But what can Dad expect from me? Does he want me to seduce Dimitri at his father’s funeral or something? Knowing Dad, I probably shouldn’t let myself be surprised by thoughts like that.
I can’t help but watch Mikhail when he stands up and leaves the room. He walks fast, with broad, powerful shoulders pulled back, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Maybe this is all getting too much for him.
Since I’m sitting alone, I don’t need to excuse myself. Yet the instinct is still there, a result of the times Dad scolded me for being rude and ungrateful when I tried to leave without excusing myself first. I leave the room, walk down the hallway, and find Mikhail leaning against the wall, his hands on his head, his eyes closed.
He’s breathing slowly, deeply, his chest rising and falling exaggeratedly in a way that makes me want to place my hand on him. His posture looks tight, angry, and almost ready for violence.
Then, suddenly, he launches himself at the wall. He hits it twice, making a tangled noise of pure pain. His hair comes loose, wild as it hangs down, making him look like some Viking warrior. He turns to me when I gasp, staring through his loose hair. He smooths it back and then tries to laugh, but it sounds forced.
“Mikhail, you’re bleeding,” I say, rushing over to him. His knuckles are dripping blood.
He holds his hand up and studies it curiously. “Everybody is telling me how sorry they are,” he groans. “Everybody is telling me I should miss him. Maybe I’ve been confused, but hell. I’m notthatconfused.”
